


In Which Eridan Ampora Is An Insufferable Idiot And Doesnt Follow Directions

by Redbudtree



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Gen, Gills, Hurt/Comfort, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redbudtree/pseuds/Redbudtree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eridan has taken up a rather nasty habit and has begun suffering some ill-effects. Despite knowing that she's getting into a frustrating situation, Kanaya cannot resist meddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Eridan Ampora Is An Insufferable Idiot And Doesnt Follow Directions

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place a few sweeps after the game, in a world where the A2 trolls and humans live together on Earth. Cliché setting, I know, but it’s vague enough that I’m not really sure it matters. Still, that’s something worth noting here.

“What,” you say, drawing your breath in as a hiss. “Is _that?_ ” You pinch the bridge of your nose and resist the urge to recoil in disgust. There’s a noxious smell in the air – a heavy scent that clings to everything around and sinks into cloth and skin alike. You’ve been in this hive for less than five minutes and already you’re regretting entering. You remind yourself that what drew you here tonight was a matter of concern for an acquaintance’ health, and make a mental note to air the place out thoroughly before you consider stepping out the door again.

A hacking fit returns your focus to the subject or your concern (and your rapidly increasing irritation). Eridan is curled up in a high-backed chair, attempting to look imperious as he stares down his nose at you, lowly jadeblood intruder into his domain. Unfortunately for his dignity, the effect has been ruined by how unwell he appears. His face has turned an oddly pallid mixture of violet and lavender, and he appears to be mere moments away from becoming violently ill. Then there are the coughing fits – harsh, thick, congested sounding coughs that somehow magnify the rancid smell in the room. You would be quite concerned for his welfare, if not for the large cylindrical object he holds clenched in one hand. It’s clear that it is the cause of the smell permeating throughout the hive – the smoke steadily rising from one end is proof enough of that.

As you watch him, he lifts the object to his lips and inhales deeply, an action that simply sets him to coughing again. When it’s stopped, he blinks languidly at you, and you realize that his eyes are watery and bloodshot. You find yourself fighting the urge to pluck that disgusting unknown out of his hand and snap it into like you did to his wand sweeps ago, and while you don’t wish to chainsaw the seadweller in half again you do feel that an attempt at physically beating some sense into that perfectly coiffed head of his.

“Well, Kan,” he says at last, the warble he makes as he pronounces the ‘ _w_ ’ perfectly audible and a bit drawn out to your ears. “This, as you would know if you were adequately informed about the accoutrements and trappin’s of interstellar royalty, is what’s known as a ‘cigar’. This world’s greatest leaders were known for smokin’ them, so it’s only fittin’ that as one of the last two remainin’ examples of troll royalty that I improve my image as a leader by doin’ the same.”

While ordinarily you would applaud Eridan’s attempt to accept the fact that you are all now citizens of Earth and that his persistent dislike of humans is both outdated and foolish, the manner in which he is going about it leaves much to be desired. On top of that, you cannot help but wonder what sort of role models he is attempting to imitate that would support such a vile and dangerous habit. But that’s a question for another time. For now you have a terribly ill and terminally stupid troll to try and bully into health.

Sigh.

“Your willingness to look to human leaders as an example is admirable, Eridan,” you begin, and you cannot help but smirk just slightly as you watch the signs of his ego inflating. He sits up just a little straighter, thrusts out his chest, and straightens his scarf. It’s almost – almost, but not quite – pitiable how quickly that ego is going to be brought back down. “However, I find myself more astounded by your ability to overlook the obvious. How long have you been making yourself ill?”

Just as you thought, your pointed inquiry pricks careful little holes in his ego, and the overconfident seadweller reverted back to the ill young troll trying desperately to make himself feel important. The watery-eyed glare he shoots you makes your heart clench in a manner that is quite unsuited to your stance of polite neutrality. You’re certain that his eyes are watering merely because of the terrible smoke they have been exposed to, not with true tears, but the image is strikingly pitiful anyway. You do a quick mental calculation of how many nights he has appeared to be under the weather and realize that he must have been smoking these things for just over a week now.

This refreshes your irritation to the point that you draw near to him and do exactly as you had envisioned earlier. You don’t snap the foul-smelling stick, but you do pluck it out of his hand and set it in the ashtray that rests on a nearby end table. You’ll deal with that later, once you give this house a thorough cleaning. For now, you simply pinch your nose to try and block out the worst of the fumes and frown at him.

“Eridan, get up.” When he doesn’t move immediately (he’s far too busy trying to decide whether to look like a wiggler that just lost his favorite toy or to berate you for trollhandling royalty) you take out your lipstick and run a finger along it in a thoughtful manner. This makes him settle on a vaguely horrified expression and he all but jumps to his feet. You incline your head in the direction of his ablution block with a “March,” and he does just that at a pace that would make Alternia’s best sprinters envious.

You follow at a more sedate pace, and by the time you arrive in the chamber he’s curled up over the load gaper, expelling whatever he’s eaten recently. You click your teeth and fetch a glass of water for him and a damp washcloth, placing them on the sink within easy reach when he’s finished. While he takes care of that, you head to his ablution trap and set up a bath for him. You’ve just finished running the water when you hear a sound from behind you, and you turn to find him kneeling on the floor, cape pooled around him and a look on his face that could only be described as despair.

“Kan,” he says, and you realize that he’s been attempting to get your attention for a moment now. Kan, what are you doin’, I can do that myself!” You respond with a shot scoff and move to divest him of his cape and his shirt, frowning when you see the state his gills are truly in. You frown and press lightly on the swollen and straining opercula, rewarded by a hiss of pain and a defensive scowl. You had thought that inhaling a form of smoke would be damaging to his tissue, but to your untrained eye this looks worse than you had expected. Something isn’t quite right here, and you decide that once he is in the ablution trap you are going to examine these human ‘cigars’ for yourself. He seems to be waiting for a response from you, however, so you simply get to your feet and point to the ablution trap.

“You can, but you won’t, and so it falls to your friends to ensure that you do not die for the second time in your life through a chronic case of stupidity. Take an ablution, Eridan. I will see about preparing you a little something.” You turn and walk out of the block, shutting the door behind you with a click as yet more hacking coughs reach your auricular sponge clots. Once you’ve shut the door, you sigh and lean against it, rubbing your temples to fight off your burgeoning headache. You can get through this. There is no possible way that Eridan could make this worse for himself and for you.

 

Several hours pass before you catch sight of Eridan again. During that time you have aired out his hive, tossed every last ‘cigar’ you could find into the waste receptacle, straightened the place up a bit and made tea for both yourself and him. You are sitting on his couch with a cup of tea in one hand and your husktop opened on the coffee table before you when he shuffles in, wearing a silken purple robe with his symbol embroidered in pure gold thread over his left breast. His color looks better, you note to yourself, but there’s still a raspy quality to his breathing that has you a little concerned.

For a long moment he simply stands there, watching you – the very picture of sickness and misery. The image would be more effective, however, if it wasn’t obvious that he had gone to the effort of styling his hair before leaving the ablution chamber. At last you set your tea aside and motion for him to sit next to you. He immediately flings himself down into a reclining position, draping himself across the piece of furniture in a manner that can only be described as a mixture of elegant and ridiculous. You have to roll your eyes at him.

“Feeling better, are we?” You ask, and pour him a cup of tea. He makes a disgruntled sound at the prospect of sitting up and drinking the beverage, likely because it would ruin the perfect picture of ailing royalty or something equally inane and narcissistic. Another sharp look from you informs him that you won’t accept his nonsense right now, and he sits up and sips at the drink. He makes a face as he swallows it, but remains blessedly silent for a moment longer. Then he nods, or you think he does – the motion’s so slight that you just barely catch it.

“Yeah,” he says, and now you’re quite certain that the purple tinting his cheeks is from a blush rather than from the odd sort of illness he inflicted upon himself. “Yeah, I… feel a lot better now. Guess my gills were more fucked up than I thought.” He looks so defeated, so genuinely chagrined that despite your misgivings, you reach over and pat the back of his hand in an attempt to soothe his badly-wounded pride.

“There, there. It was a mistake, Eridan - a rather terrible one, to be sure, but far from unforgiveable. However, I hope you know better than to make it again?” You ask him, your tone pointed as you watch the seadweller drink his tea. You’re surprised to see the violet flush grow in intensity and spread all the way out to his fins. He really is contrite. Or perhaps he is simply still ill enough that defending his pride would take more than he has in him. In any case, your expression softens and you find your remaining irritation fading away, unable to stand up to the genuine misery that the seatroll is broadcasting.

“You got that right, Kan. Human leaders have shit taste in what’s dignifyin’; I ain’t wastin’ my time with their ideas any more. I can’t rightly see why I did in the first place, seein’ as how they’re all pan-shittin’ dirt monkeys anyway,” he says, and you bite your lip, rolling your eyes again. You’re pretty sure that he doesn’t mean anything by it, at least not right now. He’s sick and irritable, and while you are quite fond of the humans yourself you do have to admit that some of their ideas are somewhat… flawed in nature. Burning terrible-smelling sticks that make you ill when used incorrectly is quite obviously one such flawed concept.

This reminds you of the information you discovered earlier.

“Eridan, I believe that I already know what your answer to this question will be, but did you simply hold the smoke from the ‘cigars’ in your mouth, or did you inhale it into your system?”

He blinks at you, and his eyes are still noticeably bloodshot, with dark rings under them standing as stark proof of how little sleep he’s been getting lately. “Inhaled it, obviously,” he says, drawling out the _vv_ in a manner that tells you just what he thinks of this line of questioning, “It’s something you smoke, ain’t it? Of course you’ve got to inhale it for the full effect!” In response, you simply turn your husktop screen to face him, allowing him to see the human intergrub page that you have pulled up, and the clear black words that scroll across it.

‘ ** _Never inhale the smoke from a cigar. Simply hold it in your mouth, taste it, then blow it out._** ’

Eridan lets out a sepulchral groan and falls back into a position of Despair in Recline, leaving you to scramble for his teacup before he drops it and ruins his robe or the floor with the remaining liquid. “Just kill me again, Kan, kill me again and spare me the ongoin’ humiliation that I’m facin’ in this moment,” he says, tears welling up beneath his long black eyelashes. You are not in the mood to deal with any further theatrics, however, and so you rap him sharply on the nose to get his attention.

“Eridan Ampora,” you say, and he squints up at you with a petulant expression that makes you want to hit him and hug him at the same time. “You made a mistake. It was not the most attractive of errors and has made you rather ill, but contrary to your belief it is not the end of life as you know it nor is it something to make such a fuss about.” Oh, now his eyes are watering again. You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes closed. “Oh for – Eridan. There is no possible way that this is going to affect your reputation – such as it is – because this incident is going to stay between us, unless _you_ decide to bring word of it to someone. Now you are going to start taking care of yourself for a few moments while I make you some grubloaf to settle your digestive sac.”You don’t give him the chance to respond, heading into the protein preparation block in a flurry of motion. You prepare him a slice of toasted grubloaf with just a little creamy grubsauce and jam on it, and then – just for fun – you cut it up into shapes resembling wizard’s hats and slide it onto a protein plateau.

As it turns out, there was no point in preparing it – by the time you get back out there, Eridan is sound asleep on the couch, one hand thrown over his eyes and the other resting on his chest. You still notice a certain amount of rasp in his breathing, along with the slight wheeze from his irritated gills, and you can’t really begrudge him the rest after he’s gone and made himself so sick. You shake your head at him, brush his hair back out of his eyes, and set the grubloaf on the coffee table so that it will be there when he wakes.

Returning to your original seat, you open up trollian and send Rose a message – you won’t be coming home for quite some time. You don’t quite trust Eridan on his own right now, certainly not enough to leave him to his own devices. Besides, this place is still rather messy. It, like its owner, could do with some more tidying up.


End file.
